


Portrait

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Season/Series 03, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-06
Updated: 2007-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam puts the pieces together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007

The first things of Dean's that Sam remembers are his hands, fingers lightly dancing right out of his reach, Sam looking up, up, up, into a haze of dark, light and the blurring peach of his brother's skin. The next thing he discovers is Dean's neck, too skinny for his head when he was a kid, but corded and strong and salty when Sam bit it in a wrestling match, and Dean yelled _goddamit_ , muffled into the dirt. There's Dean's hair when Sam is nine, mysteriously longer that year, curling a little about his neck, flipping at the ears. He's fascinated by the way the sun catches it, how dark it is when his brother sweats, plastered to his neck, still salty Sam imagines, and his temples, gleaming. He jerks away when Dean looks back at him curiously, playing with his hands, his jeans, his own hair, short. That's when he decides he wants the same thing. Maybe he whines a little when John runs his fingers through the then blonde brown mess, frowning, and gets the scissors only a few nights after. Dean looks nonplussed, pale line of naked forehead and naked cheeks and naked neck vulnerable in the fluorescent light of their apartment, but Sam's furious at the little curls lonely on the linoleum, crumpled dark and shining, gutted.

When Sam's twelve, he sees his brother's cock. It's red, glistening, fresh out of the embarrassed looking girl whose thin hands slip pale around Dean's round, sunburned shoulders, her curls shyly hiding her face. It's not all that different form his own, appearing and disappearing between his right hand a few minutes later when he's by himself, struck by how unimpressed he was, and maybe moreso by the sharp cut of Dean's hips, the way he'd yanked the sheet up almost coyly, which was absurd. The flash of the weird, the forbidden, then the lingering image of a long torso winding down to angular bone and shadow. The next day, Dean sat him down, voice muffled the way it was when he was uncomfortable, hesitant, _whadja wanna know?_ , and Sam learned his collarbone through the bleached thin threads of his cotton shirt, sharp and skinny because everything about Dean was prickly then, a little tempting. Red faced, Sam stuttered through questions that turned into weak accusations, his nose rediscovering Dean's smell, sour sweat, boy, musk, brother, everything he's already known, made more real, sharper by the way he can see sweat making his brother's shirt clean, his skin glisten a little.

Later, he thinks it's weird that the eyes come after the cock, veined and ugly and strangely every day, nothing every day about Dean's eyes in the light. It embarrasses Sam, which is maybe why it takes him so long. First he has to get through the girlish brush of lashes, which had always embarrassed _Dean_ , then the sunlight cutting into their room, and the red rims of weariness, but finally he sees the clear green widened to his own, dark pupil, flecks of brown, Sam's brown. They're filed into his head along with everything else, burned along the backs his hands, the soles of his feet. With eyes come the errant eyebrows, sardonic and awkward and condescending, then the nose, easy - it's their father's - Sam remembers their heads bowed together, feeling a little alone, outside the soldiers' cabal of straight, strong noses. The mouth is red enough to make him think of the cock again, but softer, more inviting. He remembers it opening and closing, showing him how to eat, shouting his name, deep voice, bitten when Sam and John almost came to blows. He hardly ever thinks about his brother's whole face.

Shoulders, and the tips of ears, browned forearms, wrists and the back of the neck - those are all the sun's, and dotted with its freckled scars, pale but imperfect. Sam knew those all a long time ago, in flashes, one by one, clear, dear little memories. Once, the two of them trapped in a monster's cellar together, their father careening towards them from far away, he leaned in and felt the fluttering hollow of Dean's throat, vulnerable, one hand on the tender spot beneath his ribs, the nervous slope of his spine. Then Dean's hands all over Sam, soothing, his voice, something Sam never had to learn, even when it was cracking and changing, enviably deep to cow his own reedy uncertain words.

At Stanford, it's hard to remember his brother together, but all the parts are startlingly clear. When Jess tilts her head, smiles white, _what's he like, your brother_ , Sam thinks, his hair curls and his eyes are green in the light, his cock is wet from cunts, his own hand, he smells like himself, like me, parts of skin beneath his hair, mine, not the sun's, my father's nose and chubby hands, but that was years ago. It's all jumbled, clearcut images of singular things wrestling in his head. He says something true but unimportant in reply. At night, he dreams with his hands between his legs, of painting things together, making colors and texture and smell and light into one thing, so he can focus.

After Cold Oaks, after the door to hell, the crossroads Sam couldn't bear, Dean draws tighter, more vibrantly, insistently himself, but Sam only sees more fractures. Two dark haired girls, sisters, one with the unruly curls of thirteen, and the other with the short hair of after, show him one more part, _never wanted to see, liar_. The shadow play at the window is only the tease, and the final seeing is almost a surprise. Dean's chin, which he already knows, sharp, dripping with one sister's arousal, thin line of jaw bent back, eyes almost closed, and then the knobby slop of his spine, familiar, his legs, awkwardly spread, pale ass pulled apart by the second sister, _her_ hair sparking in curls down her back, over Dean's thighs. Sam watches her tongue first, pink, brave, watches it dart into Dean's hole, pink and brown, greedy as a mouth to take in her kiss, stretching because she wants it to. Not really a part any longer, but the twitch of his thighs, white beneath the prints of her hands, and the sound that he makes, right into his own girl's cunt, spine rippling, and that tempting damp, winking beneath her eager mouth. It's so, so filthy, and he has to bite his tongue around the wince, backing out again, his heart tripping, dick throbbing in his jeans.

In the car, they trade words and smirks and engine rhythm, but it's all crashing in Sam's head, easy to put things in their right place that he has a time limit, all the parts he's ever learned, the whole he _wants_ , now he realizes, seeing his brother's face, all of it, what must be hidden beneath Dean's clothes. No mouth and cock and shoulder and nose, but Dean, everything, ready to disappear, all together, things Sam already knows. He just has to ask.


End file.
